


We're A Lovely Equation

by hostagesfic



Series: Beginners' Mathematics For Dummies [2]
Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Curtain Fic, F/M, M/M, Mpreg, Multiple Orgasms, Riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-11-30 00:41:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hostagesfic/pseuds/hostagesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>i am a victim</i>, he texts Harry.</p><p><i>proper joan of arc</i>, Harry sends back. <i>except not really i think she was a virgin.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	We're A Lovely Equation

**Author's Note:**

> ... Oops? This directly follows [It's Simple Addition](http://archiveofourown.org/works/683418), but now P has joined S in writing! No real warnings except for grumpy pregnant radio hosts and porn at the end (you can look at it as getting to the centre of a Tootsie Pop, if that's something you're into.) As a reminder, this fic assumes a world where male pregnancy is, if irregular, not unheard of.

“Harold,” Nick says, slowly, “You know that it’s _April_ , yes?”

Harry’s face, nearly hidden behind the enormous bouquet of red and pink helium balloons he’s clutching, falls incrementally. “Don’t,” he warns Nick. “This is important.”

Nick surveys his living room. There’s a paper chain garland draped over the door into the kitchen, and heart-shaped glitter confetti spread across the coffee table, around a very obviously home-made cake. It’s leaning dangerously, and Nick should be worrying about it sliding away and getting frosting and sprinkles ground into his persian rug, but all he can think is that he _wants to bury his face in it_.

Harry is distributing the balloons around the room, now, in some way that he probably thinks is strategic, but just looks haphazard and disastrous to Nick. He’s also wearing red trousers and a white tee-shirt of Nick’s that looks horrible on him, if by horrible one means nearly as edible as the cake, which Nick does.

Nick really wants to rip it off him and smear cake all over his silly broad chest.

He’s definitely in that stage of pregnancy that his copy of What To Expect When You’re Expecting (courtesy of the self-sacrificing best mate to ever best mate, Louis Tomlinson) outlined as “possible heightened sexual desire at the beginning of the second trimester.”

Nick exhales, and slumps further into the sofa, rubbing at his stomach irritably. It’s hard work, being pregnant, as he often reminds Harry. And Aimee. And his mother. He’s even resorted to texting Louis when no one else is around. Also it’s fun to poke him and watch him jump. It’s possible that pregnancy has done nothing for Nick’s douchebaggery.

Harry sets out little paper plates with retro style valentines printed on them, and red plastic cups, and cuts Nick a slice of cake that is both way too big and way too small. Nick takes it without comments, digs in with his pink plastic fork and makes a pleased sound when buttercream melts on his tongue. Harry settles in next to him, hooking an arm on the back of the couch behind Nick’s shoulders, and Nick tilts his head over to rest on Harry’s. “You have appeased me, Styles,” he mumbles, mouth still quite full of cake. “I will indulge your weirdness for the moment.”

“I thought you might say that,” Harry says, and Nick forgives even his smugness because _cake_.

“So,” Harry starts, after letting Nick have a moment with his dessert. His fingers have been slowly inching closer to Nick’s belly, and now he’s tracing infinity symbols with the tip of his pointer finger over the barely noticeable swell. “I just thought. Like, it’s a shame that his or her first Valentine’s happened and I didn’t know? And we didn’t celebrate it?”

Nick scoffs, but it’s a loving scoff softened by frosting.

“ _So,”_ Harry continues boldly, “We’re celebrating it now. And I’m going to read my card to him or her.”

Nick raises his head to glare at Harry balefully. “I’ll cry,” he says, because there’s no use fronting about these things.

“Probably,” Harry smiles. “But that’s why there’s cake. Well, and also because cake.”

“Because cake,” Nick nods.

Harry leans forward to pour Nick a glass of ginger ale; the raspberry kind, that Nick is pretty sure is seasonal. Which, does bring up the question of where Harry managed to get a party store’s worth of Valentines rubbish on such short notice. He doesn’t really need to know the secret ways and means of Harry Styles, though, and he takes the glass begrudgingly, laughs at Harry as he has to stand up to pull the note out of his pocket.

“Ready?” Harry says, when he’s finally made himself comfortable again, wrapped around Nick like a strange, scrawny, Valentine vampire leech.

“As I’ll ever be,” Nick says.

He does cry. (Harry does too.) And then they watch Mary Berry.

;

When Nick starts showing, Matt’s the first to notice.

“Did Ian piss in your tea, darling boy?” Nick asks, because Finchy’s face is contorted into a sort of confused grimace. It’s not very flattering.

“That’s a nice jumper,” Finchy deflects, gesturing at Nick’s top. “Is that Harry’s?”

“I’m not saying it is but I’m not saying it isn’t,” Nick mutters, glances down at himself. He doesn’t like it when Matt asks this many questions. It’s dangerous.

Matt shrugs. “Bit snug.”

“What’s that even- good morning, Great Britain!” and it’s _so_ like Matt to start shit right before a link’s coming up, and all Nick can do is put on his sweetest voice and glare daggers at him- for what, he’s not exactly sure yet. Is there a stain on his jumper? Has it shrunk in the wash? Did Harry come on this? Salvation arrives in the form of a Nas track, and Nick diligently puts down his headphones.

“What are you on about, Fincham?” he raises an eyebrow.

Matt doesn’t say anything, but he does pointedly glance down at Nick’s hand on his stomach.

“What’s that?” LMC pipes up, ducking back into the studio from a coffee break in the dining closet. “Why does Finchy look constipated this time?”

“Good morning, Laura,” Nick chirps, and promptly drops his hand from his stomach. Christ.

“Did Harry miss his flight?” she asks. “Awfully chipper today.”

“Harry did not miss his flight,” Finchy shakes his head, and turns his screen to show her the paparazzi shots that are already up on Tumblr.

“Sweet boy, bless him,” she coos. “Why’d he even come back this time, anyway? He wasn’t even home for a week. Separation anxiety much?”

“Off the social networking site, Fincham,” Nick points a menacing finger at him. “That was Nas on BBC Radio 1,” he sighs into the mic. “Laura-May Coope in the house, ladies and gentlemen. Did you bring me coffee, Laura?”

“No,” LMC deadpans.

“Right! It’s seven thirty. Here’s Tina with NewsBeat.” Nick flicks off his mic and groans. He wants coffee and he’s spent the entire _weekend_ wanting coffee. Aimee says its fine to drink decaf, and he can ration himself to one cup of regular every few days and be alright, but fuck Aimee and her decaf and her rationing because that is _not_ going to cut it. Nick Grimshaw’s personality is too strong to be preserved on weak coffee.

Matt’s giving him a funny look, and keeps it up through the news. Nick says hello to Tina and then doesn’t have anything else to say, and it sort of drifts off into Alt-J.

“You’re _sulking_ ,” Fincham says. “Why are you sulking?”

“I thought we were being happy today,” LMC adds, unhelpfully. She’s sipping her damn coffee, too, flaunting it.

Nick rubs at his temples and blinks away a slight sting in his eyes. “Matt, will you come to lunch with me today?”

“Does this have to do with how Harry _didn’t_ miss his flight?” LMC pouts.

“Know what? You should come too,” Nick decides. “And Ian, get me Ian. Everyone’s having lunch, but I’m not paying. It’s a mandatory work thing.”

“Is Ian even in today?” Fiona looks up from her screen, and Nick points at her. “You too! Everyone is coming. All of you.”

“All of us,” LMC nods, “but if you won’t pay for lunch will you pay for drinks?”

Nick is generally glad that his team can be easily bought, but right now he hates the fact that they’ve realized he’s willing to pay the price.

 _i am a victim_ , he texts Harry.

 _proper joan of arc_ , Harry sends back. _except not really i think she was a virgin_.

 _ha_ , Nick replies, because he hates Harry too.

;

“So,” LMC says, never one to let dead dogs lie. Nick thinks she probably is the type of person to see a dead stray dog on the side of the road and go resuscitate it just to send it on its way. Just to prolong its suffering. Nick is feeling ungracious. He’s also watching his team pour themselves glasses of wine before noon.

He’ll end up picking up the tab anyway. He knows this.

“So,” Ian echoes, clinks his glass to Nick’s ice water.

“We’re missing someone,” Nick decides, sips his water. “Where’s Aimee?”

“Aimee doesn’t work for you,” Fiona points out.

Nick glares at his glass, because glaring at Fiona would feel a bit like kicking a puppy. “She’s an integral part of this team, don’t be rude.”

“Are you serious right now?” Finchy groans. “Nick, what is it?”

“I can’t just _tell_ you, Fincham,” Nick says, nursing his water and trying to burn holes into Matt’s wine glass so it pours over his new jumper. Perfectly fitting, slightly baggy jumper. Damn him. “There has to be a lead up, and we haven’t gotten our food yet. And there’s no Aimee.”

“Fine,” Ian says, setting his phone on the table. “I’ve texted her.”

They all look at Ian suspiciously for a moment before the waiter arrives to take their orders.

In the end, Aimee shows up, looking curiously groomed for the lunch hour. She’s also _not_ particularly late, which Nick will have to speak to her about. Or maybe just have Ian get in touch with her always, from here on out, if it yields such results.

“Ai _mee_ ,” he crows, reaching for her as she shuffles through the tables to their back booth. Sweet, sweet Aimee. Surely she’ll ease him into this.

“Is this the important meeting where you tell them lot you’ve a bun in the oven? ‘cos that’s way overdue, Nicholas, honestly-”

Everyone gets really, really quiet. Nick thinks he hears a fly. Are there flies in this establishment? That’s kind of disgusting. How easy is it to herd flies into people’s drinks? Surely Matt deserves it, after this morning-

“I hadn’t, quite, actually,” he says, in the end. He can feel his smile gone brittle, and he’s _not_ looking at Matt’s dropped jaw or LMC’s huge eyes or Ian’s confused eyebrows. “But thanks, love.”

“Congratulations?” Fiona says, from down the table, and Nick knew she was his favorite, really.

“Thank you, yes,” he says, like he’s a robot. He sort of needs to text Harry, but his phone’s in his pocket and his fingers aren’t really working at the moment. He just digs them into his thighs and stares at his bread plate.

“ _That’s_ why you had us come to lunch,” Ian says, flatly.

Nick sighs. “I called a meeting to inform you that I am having a child, yes, something along those lines, Chaloner. What’s the matter, Finchy, no snide remarks about my wardrobe fitting now?”

Matt... looks a bit choked up, actually. It’s a weird look on him.

“I think you’ve single-handedly destroyed any chances of Grincham, Nick,” Aimee points out. “Give the lad a moment.”

“Not single-handedly,” Nick counters. “Takes two to tango. Blame Harry.”

“Never have I ever been surprised to hear Harry’s the father,” Ian cocks an eyebrow. No one takes a drink.

“Did you order me food?” Aimee asks Ian. He nods, and it’s the perfect opportunity for Nick to divert everyone’s attention.

“What’s going on _there_?” He asks, jerking his chin at them. Sadly, no one else seems nearly as interested.

“How long are you- when did you- when’s the due date?” Matt finally gets out, and he’s still got this weird look on his face. Then again, Matt’s nearly always got some sort of weird look on his face, so Nick can forgive him that. The jumper comment from that morning’s show, not so much.

It’s right about then that Nick realizes he’s gonna have to be serious for a minute, which he’s been dreading all along. He swipes his fingertip along his glass, collecting condensation, and considers, for a minute, asking Aimee to hold his hand. “It’s due in September,” he mutters. “Well, he or she. Harry doesn’t like it when I say ‘it’, but I mean, Harry can sod off, right? Wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for him, the stupid, stupid, adorable pop star. Who’s on his way across the ocean. Dammit, I need a drink.”

“You can’t drink, love, ‘less you want a funny-looking babe,” Aimee says. Is she half on Ian’s lap? Is no one else seeing this?

“We’re here for you, Nick,” Fiona smiles sweetly and blows him a kiss. LMC puts down her wine glass and nods.

Luckily for everyone at the table- particularly Nick- their food arrives, and he makes it his mission to keep his mouth full at all times. The stupidest rubbish has been making him emotional these days.

They’re all ordering dessert the next time it comes up; Nick has given up training with McKenzie because training is difficult and there are things like chocolate and whipped cream in this world and he’ll be a fat grumpy pregnant person if he wants. He tells the waitress he’d like the mousse and she makes her way down the table. LMC is ordering something and Aimee and Ian are sharing a chair or deciding what dessert they want, Nick isn’t sure. It might be both.

“Nick,” Matt says, leaning over. He looks horribly guilty, as one should, when one is Matt Fincham.

Nick tells him this, and also graciously adds it’s a nice look for him.

Matt sighs. “No, really, Nick, listen, I’m sorry about what I said this morning, yeah? It was crummy anyway, even though I’m not so sure I really said anything as much as implied, but. You could’ve told me before.”

“You ought to be nicer to me,” Nick says. He may be pouting. “Me and my unborn child. We deserve kindness.”

“I’m serious, mate,” Finchy half-smiles. “I’ll be nice to you until the baby’s born. You can expect me to be ruthless again once you’re two separate people.”

Nick scoffs. “You’re a horrible friend.” His hand is inching slowly across the table towards Matt’s wine glass, but he snatches it away, and Nick’s fingers shrivel up in agony.

“I’m an excellent friend. I’m looking out for you and your baby while your baby daddy’s in America making money and causing riots amongst the teen girl populace,” Matt reasons. “Have him send me an edible arrangement for my troubles.”

“I want an edible arrangement, too,” LMC frowns. Never mind the fact that her dessert- a slice of chocolate cake- has arrived, and she’s got chocolate smudged at the corner of her mouth. It’s cute. “Is that a thing? Can we do that?”

“One that’s not out of meat,” Ian chimes in, “That was deadly.”

“Didn’t that turn out to be from Harry’s clan?” Aimee says, and there’s a general pause before they all nod. Fiona mutters, _Tomlinson_. It makes a bit more sense, that.

“Remind me not to let Harry’s bandmates near my baby,” Nick pats Matt’s cheek.

“Like you could keep them away,” LMC scoffs. “Besides, I’m sure Niall’s good with kids. He’s got that kind of face.” She gets distracted, staring into space past her fork of cake. Matt nods.

“Liam’d drop it,” Ian laughs. “Nothing against the lad, but like.”

“Probably, yeah,” Nick agrees.

“You’re having a baby with Harry Styles,” Fiona marvels. “Beat all the other pretty girls.”

Nick licks a bit of whipped cream off his spoon. “Eat your heart out, Swifty.”

Matt starts cackling, and Nick glances at him worriedly. It wasn’t _that_ funny. Pregnancy has got him somewhat off his game. “It’s kind of you to laugh at my sub-par jokes, Finchy,” he starts, and Matt shakes his head frantically.

“It’s just. Nick got Hazza’s gravy.”

Nick will maintain that Matt really deserved the dollop of whipped cream in his ears. And the spoon jab to his nipples.

Also the laxative in his coffee the next morning.

;

Harry comes back home and Nick feels like he’s on cloud nine. Their tour is in the middle of Europe, or at least that’s what Nick thinks he remembers, but he doesn’t want to hear about it, can’t be bothered. He tells Harry in exorbitant detail about Matt’s latest stupid pregnancy joke or LMC’s baby gift of the week; “She’s obsessed with our child, Harry, and the idea that she’ll make a tiny hipster freak out of it.” He tells Harry about how he’s been doing research on colors for a nursery that will stimulate artistic development, and how he’s suffering, without caffeine and vodka.

Harry listens to all of it and kisses Nick’s cheek and slides his hands over Nick’s stomach like he’s looking for something that they can’t find, yet. (Hands, maybe. Tiny feet.)

Nick catches him staring at the ultrasounds on the fridge more than once, and if he takes them to work to scan on the nice scanners and print a glossy set to tuck into Harry’s satchel for the trip back, well; it makes Harry happy, anyhow.

It makes Nick happy, too.

;

“Don’t want to leave,” Harry says, when they’re tucked into bed at nine p.m. on Tuesday night. It’s his third trip back since Nick’s phone-call Big Reveal, and he’s got to leave again in the morning. Nick has been an absolute saint and not mentioned it, or at least, not beyond bemoaning his upcoming lack of a breakfast chef, and insisting Harry rub his feet the entire time they watch Nigella because he won’t be able to for another month. And the sex. Okay, Nick’s maybe milking the trip’s limited duration for all it’s worth.

“Don’t want you to,” he admits, and tugs Harry’s curls.

“I’ll be back,” Harry says. “I put it in your calendar on your phone, don’t remember it now.” Nick can tell he’s about to fall asleep, can feel it in the loose warmth of his arm, thrown over Nick’s chest, in the press of his chest, heavy sleep-relaxed breathing against Nick’s side.

“Yeah,” Nick says, and pets Harry’s hair back from his temples, presses his fingertips to the pulse in his neck and closes his eyes.

;

Two days later, it’s half eight and Nick’s feeling lazy, so he turns on Pyramids and lounges back on his chair with his feet up on the desk and a tin of shortbread balanced on his bump. He’s scrolling through his phone, looking first for Frank Ocean’s number, and when that doesn’t yield results, for someone who might have Frank Ocean’s number so he can thank the bloke for releasing a nine minute single. Surely he had pregnant radio hosts in mind when he took that decision.

The first time around he thinks it’s just a twinge in his stomach, but he doesn’t really put down the biscuits.

It persists. He puts his feet back on the floor as the queen meets her doom and part two of the song is coming up; pulls up a Google search. He kind of got over What To Expect past the first ten pages so he’s been wading through his second trimester on what his mother has said- drink lots of liquids, eat lots of sweets- and blind faith in his instincts.

According to Web M.D. he’s dying, but Nick really doubts Walkers shortbread is conspiring against him and his unborn child, putting things in their biscuits. A second website tells him it’s either nausea or kicking, which. Oh. Time to set down the biscuits.

With a hand spread on his belly and the other dialing Harry, Nick shushes at Matt when he tries to scold him. He feels another twinge, something like a gentle tap, a _hello_ , and holds his phone up to his ear.

Harry picks up on the third ring, sleep-rough. “Nick? Everything alright?”

Matt signals at the countdown on the screen- just under two and a half minutes left until the song is over. Nick shakes his head at him, his free hand still firmly planted on his tummy.

“Harry,” Nick exhales on the beginning of a laugh. “Haz.”

“Yeah?” Harry’s tinny voice comes through the line, increasingly alert. “Do you need anything? Does something hurt?”

“No, no,” Nick shakes his head, laughing. “Harry. _Harry_ , I’m- I felt. Him, or- or her.” It’s a bit hard to get the words out through his gasps. Fiona is staring.

Harry’s frantic on the line. “Felt- felt what, babe, ‘s he or she- did you feel pain?”

“The baby’s kicking, Harry,” Nick finally gets out, counting out his inhales and exhales. His eyes are a bit damp.

“Shit,” Matt grumbles from his seat, and puts on a commercial.

“ _Shit_ ,” Harry nearly shouts down the line, sending Nick into a whole new fit of giggles.

;

Harry’s home for four days this time around, skipping out on a press run in Los Angeles before they play Mexico. Nick knows he’ll miss LA and getting idiotic tattoos with his bandmates and handing out pizza to the poor, so he decides to be nice and send Aimee away (to Ian’s? It’s a scary thought) and order in food and even pop open a bottle of wine for Harry. He almost feels sexy with his R&B playlist on the iHome, Mariah Carey imploring him to touch her body and Nick swaying his hips along in the kitchen, hand on his belly.

Nick pretty much lives for the stupid, adorable little smile on Harry’s tired face when he opens the front door, overnight bag in tow, and sees Nick setting up plates of Chinese. “Hi, Haz!”

“What’s all this, then?” he asks, dropping his bag on the sofa and beelining towards Nick. He pulls Nick into a deep kiss, all tongue and boy and _Harry_ , and Nick absolutely does not swoon.

“We were excited about you coming home,” Nick explains, as Harry turns him around, plasters himself along Nick’s back and spreads his hands on the bump. “Thought we’d make it nice, y’know.”

“Of course,” Harry nods, chin nudging Nick’s shoulder. It’s right about then that Mariah fades into R. Kelly, and Harry laughs. “Bump N’ Grind? Really?”

“It’s my sexy R&B playlist, don’t even front,” Nick scoffs. “Baby, I don’t wanna hurt nobody. All that.”

“All that,” Harry agrees. “How’s all _this_ , then? LMC said you weren’t feeling so good last week.” Harry’s sort of decided it’s his duty to play dirty and buy out Nick’s team as his personal intelligence agency.

“I shook it off,” Nick shrugs. “Sulky and pregnant isn’t a good combo.”

“Right,” Harry drifts off, swaying his hips to the music. Nick sets down the carton of fried rice in his hand and tips his head to the side, trying to look at Harry properly.

“First you shade R. Kelly, and now you’re suddenly cool with ‘im? Make up your mind, Styles.”

Harry huffs out a little laugh, kisses a line up Nick’s neck, stopping right below his ear. “You put it on, did you expect me to be immune? I still find you sexy, you know.”

“It’s nice to hear you say so,” Nick sighs. “I don’t feel very sexy, Harold. I feel like a very young, cynical whale, who knows his future is filled with moreso of the same whaleness.” He wrinkles his nose. “You get the point.”

“A sexy whale?” Harry tries.

“Just sexy is alright, thanks,” Nick amends, and Harry nods in agreement. He hums along to the song, nose pressed to Nick’s skin. Leave it to Harry to really, really get into a classic like this. Sometimes Nick realizes maybe he won’t be such a terrible baby daddy.

“Oi, is that- wow, Harry,” he raises his eyebrows, and Harry makes a grumpy little noise, pulling Nick impossibly closer by the hips.

“I mean it,” he hums. “Sexy.”

Nick rolls his eyes and brings a hand up to his head, tugs off his stupid beanie to twirl his curls. “Let me remind you that’s what got us in this mess, Harry.”

Harry giggles into the shadow scruff under Nick’s jaw. His teeth are teasingly sharp against Nick’s pulse like this, pressed so close, and Nick shivers at how gruff his voice has gone when he speaks again. “Not like I could knock you up again. Sort of already been there, done that.”

Scowling, Nick pulls Harry’s hair. “Ever heard of those freak twin cases?” he prompts, but that’s decidedly unsexy, so he goes on. “At any rate, who in the _world_ said you’d be fucking me?”

“Oh,” Harry says intelligently. He’s definitely happy to hear it, if the hard-on he’s got pressed against Nick’s bum is anything to go by. “Could you? Would you?”

“I’m sure we could figure it out,” Nick hums. He’ll let Harry pile up all the pillows and nestle him in them if it means he gets a good fuck out of it.

Harry slides his hands from the bump to Nick’s hips, squeezes him gently and turns him around easily, leaning up for a kiss, little and soft. “Please,” he says, and Nick’s always been shit at saying no to Harry.

Nick _does_ end up laid back gently on a throne of pillows and the folded up duvet. Harry sits in front of him on the bed in his pants with his brows furrowed in deep concentration, and Nick has to nudge him along gently if he’s ever getting laid tonight. “I’m comfortable, pop star, thank you,” he reassures him, and Harry licks his lips.

“If at any point you’re not, though-”

“I’ll let you know,” Nick rolls his eyes. “Yes, Harry. C’mon.”

Seemingly satisfied, Harry tugs off his briefs and digs in the nightstand for the lube. Nick doesn’t even have to tell Harry to lay himself flat beside Nick’s legs, his own legs spread out, long and pale, stomach tight as he leans up on one forearm so he can use his free hand to reach past his prick and balls with slick fingers.

“God, Harry, look at you,” Nick mutters, after a moment, “Get up- get- on your knees, so I can see, please.”

“Yeah, yes,” Harry nods, struggling up again, turning to face Nick and spreading his knees. “Missed you.” 

It’s still not the best angle, but Nick can watch him sinking down on his own fingers like this, and it’s goddamn beautiful, anyway. Nick has to curl his fingers into his palms, then fist the sheets in his hands to keep from reaching out to him. Harry’s always gorgeous in bed, but there’s something about the way he gets when he’s putting on a show for Nick. “Missed you, pop star,” Nick admits, shakes his head. “Fuck, that’s hot. How d’you feel, then?”

Harry doesn’t reply right away- he pulls his finger almost all the way out and adds a second, huffing through his nose and pushing both in to the knuckles. “Tight,” he whines, lifting his head to meet Nick’s eyes. “Need you.”

“Need a bit more lube, looks like,” Nick says, “Don’t hurt yourself, love.”

Harry drops his chin against his chest, flushed already. He’s barely moving his fingers now, just rocking his hips down onto them, keeping them deep. Nick watches his cock bobbing up against his stomach and hip and god, but he’s the most beautiful thing Nick’s ever seen, every time.

“Lube, Harry,” he reminds him, sharp, and Harry startles a little, pulls his fingers out at once to spill more lube over them.

They slide back in easier; Harry seems to miscalculate his momentum and ends up pushing in hard against the right spot, almost crumbles in a shudder and a dirty moan.

“Missed me is right,” Nick smirks, wraps a hand loosely around his cock and absolutely does not think about how he’s having trouble seeing over his stomach to see where he’s grasping. He doesn’t have the time to get emotional about losing sight of his dick, now. “C’mon, add another, yeah?”

Harry nods, twists the two fingers already in as he pulls them out halfway and nudges in a third, holding his breath. “ _Nick_ ,” he whines, needy, and Nick can’t think of anything to say. Harry’s too fucking beautiful, pale skin flushed red just from working himself open for him, and Nick _wants_.

He blinks back to himself when Harry leans forward, burying his face in the sheets by Nick’s knee, tilts his head to press his mouth against Nick’s thigh and moan. Nick lets go of his cock to reach down and tug Harry’s curls, force him into looking up. “C’mon, Harry,” he says, “You can take me now, yeah, be good for me?”

“Yeah, want- yes,” Harry licks his lips, slides his fingers out. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks again, and Nick wants to die, never thought being coddled could be so endearing and oddly hot.

“I’m fine, just- get on with it, please,” he groans. “Gonna face me, then? I wanna see you, missed your handsome face.”

“You think I’m handsome,” Harry smiles goofily, slicking up Nick’s cock.

“Devastatingly so, yes,” Nick concedes. “Come _on_.”

“You don’t _really_ want me to come this soon.” Harry’s grin widens as he straddles Nick’s hips and holds Nick’s prick at the base, rubs the head over the slick of where he’s gotten himself ready.

“Maybe not,” Nick exhales, and reaches for Harry’s legs, pulling him forward incrementally with hands behind his knees and then spreading his palms on Harry’s thighs to keep him there. “Be a shame, waited awhile for this-” he has to swallow, as Harry presses the head of his cock in the slightest bit, goes still, obviously trying to relax. “I’d really love for you to come on my prick, yeah, love.”

Harry pulls his lower lip between his teeth and closes his eyes, breathes deeply as he lowers himself, thighs and stomach tight with exertion. Nick isn’t ashamed to admit that of all the things he’s missed about Harry, this might be the one he craved most; doesn’t even have to play the heightened sex drive card. He’s allowed to miss all of Harry, from his face to the whimpery sounds he makes when Nick fucks him.

“Good?” Nick asks, hands moving up to Harry’s hips, not pushing or guiding so much as touching just to feel him, to keep him close.

“Very,” Harry nods, exhaling as his arse meets Nick’s hips.

“Fuck,” Nick says. He’s a little bit sorry he can’t see where they’re meeting, now, only gets to see Harry’s stomach constricting with it, the head of his cock still jerking up needily. But he can _feel_ it all, and he can taste it on Harry’s tongue when he stretches forward to lick into Nick’s mouth.

“So good,” Harry mumbles, and pulls back regretfully, rolling his hips and slowly lifting himself until Nick thinks he’ll slip out- he pinches Harry’s hips and shoves him back down, tries to memorize the pleasure and surprise on Harry’s face.

He lets Nick guide him, only puts effort into lifting his hips and then drops them lazily, letting himself be pulled down again and again. Nick doesn’t think either of them can last long like this, not when Harry’s clenching around him every time he raises up and whimpering every time Nick angles his hips to hit his prostate. He leans back, hands spread on Nick’s thighs, and churns his hips in little circles, head thrown back.

“Nick, I’m-” he whines, and promptly loses his rhythm. “Oh.”

Nick expects him to pick right back up- he’s good at that- but Harry just slows down, and Nick feels it’s probably his turn to intervene. “What?”

“‘s it- is it weird to, um, come on your stomach now?” Nick’s about to laugh, to roll his eyes and give Harry the reaction he’s surely looking for- but he can’t be, with the way his brows are furrowed and he looks genuinely _worried_ , like this is a moral dilemma of monumental proportions.

“Jesus, Harry, really?” Nick groans.

“I don’t know!” Harry says, and his voice breaks. _Teenager,_ Nick thinks, fondly, and leans up, looks to where Harry’s got his hand tight around the base of his cock, is shivering all up his thighs. Even the muscles of his stomach have gone twitchy with it, and Nick pets his sides, exhales.

“Babe,” Nick says, as sweetly and soothingly as he can so as not to break him. “You can come on my stomach.” He bumps his knuckles carefully against Harry’s, and Harry almost jerks away, makes a sad little sound, frowning.

Right. “Harry, come on my stomach,” Nick presses, squeezing Harry’s side. “It’s honestly okay.”

Harry goes quiet and concentrated, biting his lip until it's white around his teeth, and starts moving his hand again, slow strokes like he’s still not convinced. Nick digs his nails into the soft skin below his ribs and reaches up with his other hand to yank at his hair. “Harry, _come on my stomach_ ,” he orders, and Harry seizes up, falls forward as he obeys, striping come up Nick’s stomach and hanging his head to watch.

"Fuck," Nick grits out, eloquent, as Harry strokes himself quickly, desperately, like he's afraid his body will regret it. He clenches around Nick and his shoulders heave with the effort to hold himself up, more willing to exert himself in the middle of his orgasm than to crush Nick and the baby.

Nick’s hand slides through his hair to find his face, cup his hot cheek in his palm and thumb at the corner of his mouth. Harry makes a weak noise, turning into the touch and exhaling wetly at Nick’s fingertips, breathing gone harsh.

“You’re good,” Nick assures him. “God, that was pretty, Harry.” He’s a little saddened by the inevitable reality of Harry moving, the loss of Harry’s arse and heat and _touch_ , but maybe he’ll be awake enough to jerk Nick off, anyway.

Then, Harry picks his head back up and with his hands on the bed at either side of Nick's hips, lifts himself and ruts down on Nick's cock, whining. "C'mon," he almost slurs, voice gone lower after his orgasm, "Nick, yeah."

Harry's shivering and his eyes have gone unfocused, but he keeps going, hips grinding down in figure-eights. He bounces in Nick's lap, hands carefully, shudderingly framing Nick's tummy, fingers rubbing through his come. By the time he clenches around Nick a final time, feels the pulse of it when Nick comes with a moan; by the time Nick pushes at his legs weakly and he can fall over, slump against Nick's side, he's half-hard again and completely breathless.

"Don't flaunt your youthful stamina in front of me," Nick grunts, but still turns on his side very, very carefully, spreads a hand on his tummy before he can really think about the mess. "C'mon, then, pass a bit of lube," he nuzzles Harry's neck or chest or something, anything, and wraps his free hand around Harry’s cock. It’s familiar, barely requires a thought, and he can focus his attention on the way Harry tangles their ankles together and kisses Nick needily, clings to his arms. Nick feels warm and buzzing all over, is willing to forego the pretense of teasing just this once to just press his forehead to Harry's and wank him off.

Harry whimpers and bites his lip and goes absolutely lax when he comes, and Nick kisses his forehead and smooths away his sweaty hair with his clean- or cleaner- hand and just watches Harry until he blinks back to a level of consciousness where he can get up and get them flannels.

Everything’s gone very quiet, when Harry gets back with a warm flannel and a glass of water for Nick, all gangly limbs and sated, mellow eyes.

Nick's own water a bit. "'s the hormones," he mumbles, and Harry furrows his brows, puts down the flannel and the water on the bedside table and gets in bed, pulling Nick into a hug. "Hey, you're okay."

Nick sniffles and nods, tilts his mouth into Harry's and feels. Grateful, really. Harry's squeezing Nick's hand in his, and Nick brings it down to his tummy, spreads their fingers over the bump together.

**Author's Note:**

> Songs referred to, if that's your sort of thing- Pyramids by Frank Ocean, Touch My Body by Mariah Carey, and Bump N' Grind by R. Kelly.


End file.
